


Blood Feud and Gunpowder

by fleet_of_red



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Canon Dialogue, Canon Divergence, Character Death, Gen, M/M, Plot & Action, Pre-Game Flashbacks, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 05:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16780120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleet_of_red/pseuds/fleet_of_red
Summary: The blood feud between the Van der Linde gang and the O’Driscolls started years ago with the death of a brother and a lover...and it will end with the death of a son.“It just goes to show that destiny catches up to you in one way or another, and you can never escape your past.”a.k.a. What if Arthur never escaped his imprisonment from the O’Driscolls?





	Blood Feud and Gunpowder

**Author's Note:**

> The first section includes dialogues from the game, since the line, “Oh Arthur I missed you”, spawned this monstrosity. 
> 
> The ending also mirrors elements from canon, but with a drastic twist, considering what we know of the characters at this point in the game.

“So you only met with him to grab me?” Arthur gasps, stunt by the revelation. He knew the parlay was a trap. He knew. But he thought the trap was for Dutch, not _him_.

“Of course. He’s gonna be so mad,” Colm O’Driscoll exclaims with glee and anticipation, revealing his plans to his bound hostage. “He gonna come _raging_ over here... and a whole lot of ya, and the law will be waiting for him.”

Arthur flinches as he fails to suppress the panic that’s rising within him. The sense of dread spreads through his broken body as he remembers so clearly the rage and fury that overtook Dutch.

“Oh, Arthur...oh Arthur I missed you.” Colm delivers blow after heavy blow against his torso, bruising him with every hit. The vicious force from the punches makes him swing limply in his confines. Arthur sputters and coughs in pain, and when oblivion finally washes over him, he welcomed it.

\------------------------------------------------------

_Years ago..._

It all started with a single lock of blonde hair nailed to the wooden door frame of the post office in town. The hair was still held together by a thin blue ribbon made of silk. The town folks waved it off as a juvenile prank, or perhaps a secret message from one lover to another...but to the Van der Linde gang, it was an unmistakable declaration of war.

“We knew they would retaliate for the death of his brother,” The gang’s co-founder and right-hand man said while examining the lock of hair on the table. He looked up from the hair, having verified its authenticity, and asked, “There was no note or any other message, just this?”

The older man who retrieved the hair, Uncle, looked sober for once. “Yea, Hosea, I took it and came running straight back.”

“You sure you weren’t followed?” Arthur, the youngest member of the gang, questioned with a raised brow. He hasn’t reached his full height yet, but already, he’s an experienced gunslinger and rider. But at this moment, his nerves betrayed his youth, and he crossed his arms in front of him hoping it would hide just how unsettled he was about the whole situation.

Uncle muttered a curse under his breath. “Who do you take me for? Tsk, absolutely no respect for your elders.” But already, the conversation carried on without him.

“If he were a man, he’d come after me,” Dutch van der Linde, the leader whose gang took after his namesake, yelled with a face crimson with rage. He thrust a finger to his chest and growled. “I was the one who killed his brother, not her. Not Annabelle!”

The outlaws waited silently around the table for their leader to propose a plan of rescue, but Dutch was still lost in his own fury. It was Hosea who spoke up first. He glanced at Arthur who looked paler than usual and instructed, “Go help Mrs.Grimshaw pack. If they took Annabelle from just out of town, they might suspect where we’ve camped. We need to move immediately!”

Arthur looked up at him from a daze but then nodded without a word. He spared one last worried glance towards Dutch before leaving. He’s never seen him like this before.

Hosea turned his attention back to his friend and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We will get her back...but we can’t go in guns a-blazing. He has a lot of men.”

But it was as if Dutch couldn’t hear him. He kept staring at the lock of blonde hair with the look of a man possessed. He clenched his fists and promised himself, “I swear, Colm O’Driscoll will pay for this.”

\------------------------------------------------------

_Present Day_

“Jesus Christ, he’s burning up. Go get the boss--”

Arthur can hear someone speak, but the sounds seem to come from underwater; distant and distorted. Without warning, his entire world shifts as he’s cut loose from the ropes that held him upside down. He can feel every bone in his body shift from the impact as he crashes to the ground with a loud thud. He might’ve screamed, but he’s not entirely sure.

Minutes passed, maybe hours, then a familiar voice barks out an order, “Patch him up! We can’t have him dying on us just yet. I want him kicking and screaming when they come for him.”

Arthur can see movements in the room as people shuffle around but his mind can’t connect their actions until a piercing pain explodes between the junction of his chest and shoulder, where the bullet wound is. A hand holds him still.

“There he is! Welcome back, Arthur,” Colm greets him with a toothy grin, “How was your nap?”

Arthur wants to snap back with something witty, but the pain from one of Colm’s man--more butcher than surgeon--digging the bullet out was all-encompassing. He grits his teeth and groans instead.

“Your friends should’ve gotten our message by now,” Colm informs him, not really expecting a coherent reply from his captive. “I thought about chopping your hand off, or at least a few fingers and send that back to Dutch all wrapped up in a nice little box.” He chuckles at the grim expression on Arthur’s face before continuing.

“But then I thought, no, that wouldn’t do, would it? Why would Dutch come for you if you can’t wield a gun no more? What use would he have for you then?” Colm asks with a questioning gesture in the air.

Finally, the surgeon yanks the bullet out of Arthur with a metal tweezer, but the worst pain is yet to come. He drenches a cotton pad soaked in alcohol and dabs it over his open wound. Arthur screams and jerks away in a vain attempt to escape the electrifying pain. Colm holds him still with one hand, talon-like nails digging into flesh.

“In the end, we left your kit and firearm back where we had our little parlay and hope that message is clear...for your sake. Otherwise, what I did to Annabelle will be _nothing_ compared to what I’m gonna do to you.”

It’s been almost two decades and Arthur still remembers the night they found her. But instead of fear, a deep resolve fills his heart. That or delirium has started to set in. Arthur starts laughing at Colm’s threat. “There ain’t nothing you can say that will make me fear you, coward.”

Colm frowns, shaking his head. “To think, I was going to take it easy on you on account of you being all shot up and all.”

The surgeon, oblivious to their conversation, begins to close his shot wound with rough black threads. Once that’s done, he covers the wound in a cotton field dressing and secures it with long strips of bandages. This wound will leave an ugly scar...if he survives.

“The men I have now, most of ‘em don’t even know what started all this... _disagreement_ between our gangs,” Colm twirls a finger in the air, searching for the right words. “--but you were there from the beginning, weren’t you, boy? So, I’m gonna give you one last chance, for old time’s sake.”

He kneels down to look Arthur in the eyes. “You said it ain’t ‘bout the money, but how about your life? There ain’t no need for a fine gun like you to die for Dutch. Do you honestly believe all that bullshit he spews from his mouth? That man’s delusional dream ain’t gonna happen. You know it. I know it. Long as you help us lure him in and put the final bullet in him, I’ll let bygones be bygones, whatcha say?”

Arthur scoffs, “Answer’s gonna be the same no matter how many time you ask, Colm. Ain’t no way in hell I’m gonna betray Dutch, especially to join the likes of you.” He spits dryly into the ground and tastes blood on his tongue.

Colm considers his answers and sneers. “Alright, don’t say I didn’t give you a chance, boy.” He grabs a fistful of Arthur’s hair and drags him to his knees. “I think I’ll take a leaf out of Dutch’s book for charismatic leaders and raise morale in my camp with some live entertainment, whatcha say?”

Arthur can feel his hair being pulled from the roots as he trips over his numb feet. Another of Colm’s man comes and loops a heavily scarred arm around him and together, they half-carried, half-dragged him up from the underground storage room they’ve been using as a holding cell. Around the campground, half a dozen or so of the O’Driscoll gang members watch the new development with growing interest.

Colm slings Arthur over a large wooden log used for seating by the campfire, with his arms and legs on opposite sides of the log. Immediately, another man steps over to retie his wrists together. Arthur struggles against the bind and yells, “Cowards! Is that all you can do--sneak up on a man? Untie me, I challenge any one of you to a duel!” The O'Driscolls merely laugh in response.

Under his torso, there is a buckskin pelt covering the log, but it barely provides enough protection from the rough bark against his skin. In this awkward position, the log supports most of his weight and keeps him angled slightly downwards with his hips higher than his shoulders. With the hard surface pushed up against Arthur’s bruised ribs, each labored breath sends another wave of pain through his already weakened body.

A man offers Colm some Kentucky bourbon poured in a steel cup. He takes it and clinks it against the cups of the few men nearby in an informal toast before drinking it. He tilts his head and asks Arthur with jubilation as if they are old friends catching up around a campfire, “How’s old Hosea? I expected to see him by Dutch’s side at the parlay yesterday. He doin’ well?”

“Why don’t ya ask him yourself when you’re staring at the end of his pistol?” Arthur replies with venom in his voice.

Colm laughs. “See, I was worried there for a moment when I saw a new guy next to Dutch at the parlay--thought maybe Dutch had switched it up and it wouldn’t be you guarding from the distance. Ah well, no matter, we all know how that turned out. Still so predictable, after all,” he says with high spirit and empties his cup.

By now, more people have heard the commotions around the campfire and joined in on the festivities. A bearded man steps forward and demands with a squinty glare, “You! How many men did you kill at Six point Cabin?”

A realization dawns on him as Arthur see a potential solution to ending his misery. Knowing Dutch, his people won’t launch a rescue until they know he’s still alive, so he replies with the smuggest smirk he can muster in his current state and boasts, “You call those men? It was like swatting flies!”

The muscle in the man’s jaw twitches once and his eyes gleam with bloodlust as he walks towards the bound man with a clenched fist. Before he can reach Arthur, the O’Driscoll leader grabs the man’s wrist as he walked by. There was a tense moment as Colm stares his man down with a silent threat. The bearded man grits his teeth but backs down reluctantly. He spits at the ground--the spittle falling inches short of Arthur’s face--and leaves with a huff.

“Don’t mind him. His brother died in that attack,” Colm explains casually as he circles around behind Arthur and out of his sight. The gang leader bends down on one knee and unsheathes a long hunting knife. “You wanna hear something funny, Arthur?”

“Doubt we share the same sense of humor, Colm,” Arthur replies dryly, trying to keep his tone level even if his blood is running icy cold. “--but I’m sure you gonna tell me anyway...”

“Oh, but this one’s quite the roar,” Colm chuckles as he brings the knife down to slice Arthur’s grime-covered clothing in quick, broad strokes. Not taking particular care with the blade, he leaves a thin red line, with beads of blood emerging like small rubies to the surface of Arthur’s skin. He then rips the thin fabric with his hands, exposing his captive’s backside to the chilly night air. A wave of nausea that has nothing to do with his injuries washes over Arthur as Colm’s intention becomes clear. Nearby, a man whistles.

“Thing is, back then, it was _you_ I had wanted to snatch--Dutch’s precious young protege,” Colm reminisces fondly. He brushes his fingers against the now exposed feverish skin and smiles when Arthur tries and fails to jerk away from the touch. He then pours the contents of a nearby bottle of gun oil onto one palm and runs it along his own already hardening member. “In the end, it was just easier to take the girl, but I won’t lie, I’ve thought about this for years.”

Insistent hands force his thighs apart, and Arthur can feel fingers spreading him and nudging at his opening. He can feel himself starting to hyperventilate so he snaps his eyes shut and runs through a list of useful herbs in his mind in an effort to relax. Without warning, Colm thrusts into him, burying himself completely with just one powerful stroke. Arthur opens his mouth to scream but only a raspy wet sound spills from his throat.

Colm hisses in ecstasy before stating, “It just goes to show that destiny catches up to you in one way or another and you can never escape your past.”

Without giving his captive any time to accommodate to the overwhelming sensation of being stretched beyond his limits, he pulls out slightly before plunging all the way back into the tight heat. Arthur’s vision blurs with tears but he clenches his jaw. He refuses to give the bastards the satisfaction of hearing him beg.

The punishment continues as Colm starts a brutal rhythm, pistoning his shaft in and out of abused flesh. With every thrust, he presses Arthur against the log under his injured torso, bringing about a different kind of pain. Around them, the O’Driscoll gang members jeer derogatory names at their hostage while cheering their leader on as he speeds up his pace.

“Have I told you I missed you, Arthur?” Colm pants wetly without slowing his movement. “Sure, you might not have Annabelle’s blonde curls and tits but don’t you worry, I’m enjoying this just fine. Fucking you makes me feel like a young man again.”

Arthur figures he must have lost consciousness at some point, because when he finally gathers his senses again, a different man had replaced Colm behind him. He can feel wetness running down his inner thighs. The gang leader had gone back to drinking with his men, evidently parched from his recent vigorous activity.

“Why do you have all ‘em women in the Van der Linde gang?” A skinny man watching nearby with a cigarette in his hand addresses Arthur with a crude glint in his eyes. “You pass ‘em around? Different whore for each day of the week? Not a bad idea.” His friend slaps him on the back, cackling at his wit.

Another man, obviously pissing drunk, pipes up and exclaims, “Us? We just make do with what we get our hands on, so you better save your energy, sugar, ‘cause there’s a whole camp of us and one of you.” His companions laugh.

Arthur continues to drift in and out of consciousness. His entire body radiates pain, and he no longer has any energy to keep up with pretenses of dignity. He has no idea how much time had passed since his people had received the message of his capture, but when he sees a small movement in the shadows of the shrubbery near the camp, the only thought in his mind is that they’ve come for him.

It could be one of their expert trackers—Charles, perhaps—scouting ahead of their main force. Or even Kieran, their hostage turned reliable ally, who has once again led them to an O’Driscoll stronghold. He scans the darkness for other telltale signs of a rescue when a rabbit leaps out of the bush. A fucking rabbit.

The sudden surge of hope is immediately replaced by guilt and shame. Shame that he’d wish to be rescued at the risk to his companions. Hot, fresh tears roll down his face. By the time the man behind him finishes and was replaced by another eager outlaw, Arthur had blacked out entirely.

\------------------------------------------------------

_Years ago..._

The O’Driscoll died before his body dropped to the ground. Arthur’s heart was pounding like the hooves of a sprinting horse, but his hands were steady as he shot another man trying to flank on their right. He leaped over a wooden crate and dashed to his next cover while reloading his revolver at the same time.

He had no qualms about shooting members of their rival gang. Never did like them much, even back when they had an understanding and were amiable with one another. Unlike the Van der Lindes, the O’Driscolls were locusts, menacing those weaker than them without ideology or principles guiding their actions. At least, that’s what Arthur told himself as he stared at the unblinking eyes of an O’Driscoll boy--can’t be much older than he was--with a bullet through his head.

In his peripheral, Arthur saw George, the heavy-set farmhand turned outlaw who joined them merely months ago, take two bullets to the chest. And bucktooth-Sam got part of his face blown off by a shotgun at close range as he kicked open the door to a shed. Another member of the Van der Linde gang lets out a dying scream behind him, but Arthur wasn’t even certain who it was. Somewhere in the distant, he could hear Dutch yelling for Colm to come out and face him like a man.

They forced their way through the barricaded entrance of the main compound and cleared the rooms one at a time. It was a bloody affair. They found two unarmed men hiding in the pantry who claimed they were captured from a nearby farm and forced to do manual labor for the gang. Hosea had them hogtied and out of the way before they made their way upstairs. In the end, they found Annabelle in a rundown bedroom on the upper floor.

Arthur absentmindedly wiped a trickle of either blood or sweat from his face before it could drip down to his eye. The air is eerily quiet compared to the symphony of gunshots just moments prior, and the silence from the room told him all he needed to know; they were too late.

He wasn’t tall enough yet to see past Dutch’s broad shoulders covering the entrance into the room, but he could see the small tremors rippling through those shoulders. Arthur wanted to say something—a word of comfort, or even just call out Dutch’s name to let him know the world still exists around him. He took a step forward, but Hosea raised his voice and said, “Arthur, go check the rooms downstairs. See if there’s anything useful we can take.” His tone left no room for argument, so the boy turned and walked down the stairs as he was told.

By the time he came back--3 gold belt buckles, 2 silver pocket watches, and an assortment of tonics and ammunition--Dutch had wrapped Annabelle’s body up in a bed sheet. All Arthur could see was a slim hand hanging down beyond the cover of the fabric, with dark bruises around a pale wrist.

He’s seen dead women before. Hell, he himself has even shot two. One was an unfortunate collateral during an escape, and the other was a duel against a woman hell-bent on avenging her dead husband. He wasn’t proud of it nor did he took pleasure in the killing, but they were clean deaths. Whatever the O’Driscolls did to Annabelle before her death, why, it sure as hell wasn’t clean.

Dutch had the look of a haunted man then, and Arthur swallowed whatever words of comfort he had meant to say. He merely stepped out of the way as Dutch carried the body in his arms downstairs. They never found Colm O’Driscoll among the dead bodies littering the grounds of the stronghold.

Hosea placed a hand on Arthur’s back and said with a weariness beyond his age even then, “Go get our dead and load them up. We’ll bury them by the willows near camp.” In the end, four from the Van der Linde gang perished in the fight, but a whole lot more of the O’Driscolls died.

“Alright, but what about those two men in the kitchen?” Arthur reminded him.

“Dutch and I will deal with them, see if they have any useful information. Go on, off you go,” Hosea ordered, not unkindly. Arthur pursed his lips but did as he was asked, too drained to argue back.

He was in the middle of heaving George’s corpse onto his mare when two gunshots rang out. The sudden burst of noise triggered an exodus of birds that had just resettled in the trees around the hideout. A moment later, Dutch and Hosea appeared at the entrance.

“So, were they O’Driscolls after all?” Arthur asked, securing the body with one last tug of the rope. Dutch frowned as if he just realized the boy was there.

“Of course, Arthur.” Dutch’s reply was like a whip across his face. His tone made it sound like it was the obvious conclusion and that it offended him to even be asked such a silly question from a boy. Arthur lowered his face to look at the blood-soaked ground then. He could never hide his emotions as well as they could, and if Dutch were to see his face now, he’ll know that Arthur knew he lied.

\------------------------------------------------------

_Present Day_

“--need to see him, obviously.”

A voice wakes Arthur from his oblivion and back into the land of pain. He groans weakly as he takes in his surroundings. The dim candle in the corner shows he’s back in that holding room below ground level again. He tests his hands and with a grunt confirms that his wrists are still bound. At least they didn’t string him upside down this time. They even changed him out of the filthy rag and into an old but clean shirt and trousers. How nice.

He watches warily as three men step down the stairs and into his view.

“What did I tell you--bunch of animals,” the man in a fine suit whispers to his companion as his eyes rake over Arthur’s disheveled state. With a scowl, Arthur realizes the two men in front of him as the Pinkerton agents that have been making their lives hell. Shit, Colm’s plan of setting up a trap with the cooperation of the law wasn’t a bluff after all.

“Well, Mr.Morgan, we’ve seen you in better conditions,” Agent Milton comments, nose wrinkling from the overwhelming smell of blood in the small space. “Guess you should’ve taken our deal after all. You could’ve been far from here by now, living on your own ranch, perhaps, instead of being trussed up like a turkey.”

The O’Driscoll leader interrupts whatever insult Arthur was prepared to hurl at Milton and says, “Well, like I said, the plan is sound. Do we have a deal?”

Rage burns through Arthur. In his mind, there are some lines you just don’t cross, and the betrayal of another outlaw to the Pinkertons is one of them.

His harsh laughter fills the room and he says, “They ain’t coming...You kiddin’? Dutch can see this trap coming a mile away! They’re long gone by now.” He looks at the agents with an unwavering smile, hoping it’ll shake their confidence in Colm’s plan enough that they’d take on the O’Driscolls in front of them instead.

Colm slaps him across the face. “Shut your mouth before I gag you,” he hisses.

“Hmm...Mr.Morgan does have a point,” Agent Ross points out with indifference, “Van der Linde has evaded us thus far. Who’s to say the gang isn’t halfway into the next state by now?”

“Because,” Colm spits his words out slowly like he’s explaining to a pair of dimwits, “I know Dutch. Even if he knows it’s a trap, he’ll be here for this one. Trust me.” He emphasizes his point with a sharp kick to Arthur’s stomach.

The agents turn to each other and communicate with a knowing glance. Agent Milton then turns to Colm and says, “Well, we’re not going to waste the lives of good men on you degenerates. Seems fitting for trash like you to take each other out. I think the better plan will be for your gang to thin them out a bit before we send in our force.”

“But--”

“Do we have a deal?”

Colm growls lowly but says, “Fine. But remember our agreement: Dutch’s head for a bag of cash and my immunity.” He extends his arm to shake their hand, but the agents dismiss it with a scoff and proceed to head back upstairs.

Agent Milton pauses mid-step and turns back to Arthur. “Mr.Morgan, I do wish you’d survive until we get a chance to hang you in public. We plan on letting Dutch watch as we hang all of you one by one until it’s his turn.”

The Pinkerton agent smiles with profound satisfaction at the murderous glare from the bound outlaw. He departs with a final tilt of his hat and says, “Well, you have a pleasant evening now, Mr.Morgan. And just remember, _your_ choices have led you here, and it’s far too late for any redemptions now. ”

\------------------------------------------------------

Arthur jerks awake to a calloused hand covering his mouth. His immediate reaction was to bite down, hard.

“Shh, be quiet,” the man lowers the bandana covering his face, revealing familiar scars.  
“Damn, what did those bastards do to you.”

“John,” Arthur gasps in joy and despair.

“We’re gonna get you out of here. Hold still,” John says as he quickly saws through the ropes binding his wrists together. Arthur flexes his fingers as the rope falls away, feeling pins and needles as blood rushes back.

“Listen to me, it’s a trap,” he warns, grabbing John’s arm.

“Of course it’s a trap,” John shrugs. “--but Dutch has a plan.”

“Of course he does,” Arthur wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. “It’s not just the O’Driscolls. There’s a troop of Pinkertons nearby, just waiting to finish off whichever gang is left standing.”

“Well, shit,” John swears, panic entering his voice. “What are we waiting for, let’s go!” He grunts with effort to lift Arthur up to his feet, pulling his arm over his shoulder. The injured man winces in pain but doesn’t complain.

“Where’s Dutch?”

“The plan is for a few of us to get you out stealthily if we could. If we can’t, well, they’ll come flanking in from the sides.”

They both freeze as they hear footsteps coming down the stairs. John tightens his grip on the knife he used to cut Arthur’s binds, ready to strike.

“What’s taking so long?” Charles, their mixed-race ally whispers urgently. Without being asked, he loops Arthur’s arm over his shoulder to help lift his weight. They make their way quietly up the steps into the campground, crouching low to move without being seen. “There are too many guards covering south. I killed two in the north, and Javier is hiding the bodies right now, but it’s only a matter of--”

A gunshot rips through the night air. So much for the stealth approach.

The two men carry their injured friend into cover behind a wagon. The shots were coming from the north and getting closer. They can see Javier covering an injured shoulder in the distance, blood pouring out between his fingers. He’s crouching behind a small stack of lumber, but it won’t hold for much longer against the onslaught of gunshots. He notices the trio and shakes his head, urging them to not make their location known.

Just before the O’Driscolls descend onto Javier’s location, the Van der Linde reinforcement arrives. Lenny shoots a man taking an aim at Javier, giving him a chance to scramble to a sturdier cover behind a large rock. “C’mon, the horses are hitched a short distance away,” Lenny shouts.

The trio moves towards him while he provides cover fire. Arthur can hear, no, _feel_ a bullet shot right past his ear. It is awkward to move fast while crouching low and by the time they’re next to Lenny, the three of them are panting hard from exhaustion. John and Charles lower Arthur to the ground and they each take out their firearms to try and stem the flow of O’Driscolls trying to overrun them.

Dutch is a short distance away and he scurries over, a grim expression on his face. “My boy...my dear boy…” Dutch gasps, tilting Arthur’s face into the moonlight to see him better. The concern in his eyes turns into cold fury as he takes in Arthur’s injuries and says, “Colm O’Driscoll is not going to get away with this any longer. This ends...today!”

Arthur shakes his head and grabs Dutch’s wrist. “Forget Colm! The Pinkertons are going to drop down on us any moment now. We need to go now or they’ll get us all!” He needs to make him see reason, but Dutch turns to a familiar voice shouting in the distance.

“Is that you, old friend?” Colm barks with laughter from a safe distance where he’s holed up with a few of his men. “Come to finish this once and for all?”

“Dutch, please!” Arthur grits his teeth and begs, “Enough with this feud with the O’Driscolls. It’s not worth it!”

Dutch shakes Arthur’s hold on his wrist and snaps back, “How could you say that? You know more than most how much they’ve taken from us! From _me_!”

To their left, Bill Williamson dashes from the bushes to a cover near them and bellows, “A whole bunch of men just showed up from the north--one of them just shot Micah in the head!”

John pants while reloading his gun, “Damn. You’re right, if we don’t leave now, they’ll have us trapped in the center. We can’t take on both the Pinkertons and the O’Driscolls!”

But still, Dutch remains unshaken. Arthur is sure he is lost in the memories of a past--of pretty Annabelle wrapped up in a sheet, and all the lives lost over the years between the two gangs. They can still hear Colm hurling insults nearby, mocking them. “Dutch! Why don’t you ask your boy, Arthur, how much he has enjoyed our warm hospitality?”

Arthur wants Colm dead as much as anyone, but he cannot live with the thought of his people dying in a trap with him as bait. He looks at John, who, at the moment is surprisingly calm--a determined expression on his face as he prepares to end this one way or another. Arthur realizes this isn’t the ending he pictured for him. Not John. Not John with a wife and young son.

With a sudden surge of strength, Arthur grips Dutch’s arm and insists, “For twenty years...I gave you all I had. I did. So please, listen to me...forget about spilled blood and give up on revenge!”

Dutch glances at the direction of his sworn enemy one last time and turns to Arthur. “Yes, you’re right, son. We need to pull back and regroup.” He motions to Bill and Javier who are watching closeby, and they nod in confirmation before dashing between covers towards the direction of the hitched horses.

Arthur sighs in relief as he watches his people start to withdraw from the fight. Dutch and Lenny leave first to meet up with Hosea’s group, who were tasked with searching for Arthur in the opposite side of the camp. Charles and John lift him to his feet, and John grunts, “C’mon, let’s get you home, pal.”

A stray bullet hits Charles in the leg just as they reach their next cover. He yelps in pain as he falls over, dragging Arthur down to the ground with him. “Damnit!” Charles swears. The bullet has gone right through, and it seems like it didn’t hit a major artery. He rips his sleeve and ties the piece of fabric over the wound to stem the blood loss.

In the distance, a woman screams. _Sadie!_ Arthur realizes with a jolt. Must’ve insisted on coming to help, that damned fool! He hopes whoever is around her can get her out of here. He turns to Charles and knows that with his leg wound, he won’t be able to walk and lift him at the same time. “John, leave me your guns, I’ll cover you two.”

“What? No,” John argues with a snarl and tries to lift him up again. Arthur pushes him away.

“Listen, I can barely walk...and even if I ride with someone, I’m just gonna slow y’all down,” Arthur says desperately. “Please, get out of here. Think of Abigail! Think of Jack!” The sound of gunfire is everywhere and it’s converging towards them, fast! There isn’t time to think.

“Dammit to hell,” John roars and hands him two revolvers and his bandolier. He gives a hand to Charles, who hobbles with most of his weight on his uninjured leg.

In the distance, Dutch watches at a loss for words. He makes eye contact with Arthur and with a mix of emotions on his face turns to leave. If Arthur has to guess, he’d say it’s a look of regret. He knows this loss will haunt him for the rest of his life and he’s not quite sure if it’s a comforting thought.

“John,” Arthur urges, “He’s going to need you, now more than ever.”

Without clarifying, John knows exactly who he meant. “Don’t worry, brother, I’ll look after him and the whole gang,” he promises. With one last lingering look, he too turns and disappears into the woods with Charles by his side.

Arthur breathes in deeply. It’s amazing how much more he feels like himself with guns in his hands. He takes note of the number of bullets he has and intends to make every single one of them count. He peeks out behind the rock and takes aim at a man dashing between covers and hits him squarely in the chest. Arthur smiles, despite himself. He might be a mess right now, but he’s still one hell of a shot.

There’s some comfort in all this. Arthur always knew he wasn’t gonna die of old age next to the comforts of some hearth or such. Even back when he dreamt of living a full life with Mary, he still thought he’d die with guns in his hands. He has always known.

An explosion shakes the ground as an enemy’s bullet hits a box of dynamites nearby. He shakes the debris off him and waits for them to come. O'Driscolls, Pinkertons, it doesn’t matter anymore. Let them come.

Over the horizon, the sun is starting to rise. The sky turns into a gradient of dark blue and orange and yellow. Rays of light pierce through dark clouds from the east, adding vibrancy to the battlefield. Arthur takes a moment to watch the sunrise, not remembering ever seeing anything so full of splendor.

This is his life, and he will die the way he lived it. Maybe there wasn’t time to make amends for all the things he regrets doing...but here and now, giving his family a chance to escape...well, he couldn’t think of a better way to die.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/fleet_red) and [Tumblr](https://fleet-of-red.tumblr.com/)


End file.
